The Last Man
by Michaelmas
Summary: A sudden event in Harry's seventh year turns his world upside down. Six years later, things are very different to what they might have been, and Harry runs into those he gave everything for years ago. Trouble, however, just won't keep out of things. AU.
1. Thereby Hangs A Tale

**The Last Man**

**CHAPTER 1: ****Thereby Hangs A Tale**

It had been light for hours by the time he rolled out of bed, groaning at bruised and aching muscles from the previous day's Quidditch. Harry stood up and stretched, reveling in the feel of a well-worked body. He hobbled over to the window-sill on his bludger-bruised knee and poured himself a glass of water, picking up the Daily Prophet that Dobby had left him. MINISTRY STEPS UP CONSCRIPTION, it proclaimed. Below the headline youths stood in line in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, the enormous queue stretching as far as the eye could see.

Harry shook his head. He had spent summer in France with Ron's family, and the War had meant that the news was sketchy as to what, exactly, was happening in England. The French wanted nothing to do with the mess that was Voldemort and War, and so censored any and all press from the British Isles, including owl post. It had been a rude shock to return to England to find that one in three of the eldest children of British families were to be conscripted into the British Army's Magical Strike Division. The Prime Minister had apparently lost patience with the devastation Voldemort was creating with increasing numbers of Death Eaters, and had entered into talks with Scrimgeour. The Magical Strike Division was the end result, and now it looked as though the Ministry wanted ALL eldest sons and daughters to enlist – all save those attending Hogwarts, which was a significant portion of them. Thus far Dumbledore had managed to out-maneuver any attempts to conscript Hogwarts students, but Harry had a nasty feeling that time was running out for all of them. Should conscription be put in place at Hogwarts, he knew where the children of Death Eaters would go – straight home to their parents and the Dark Lord. And where would everyone else go? The word of mouth was that conscripts vanished, disappeared, whether their parents wanted them to or not.

There had been more than one case of conscripts taken against their will – but what could parents do? Those who resisted had been arrested and then released days later, no charges laid against them, but equally with no clue as to where their child had gone. The government was increasingly tight-lipped, and as Aurors were legally unable to participate in any action that was contrary to the law, they were now bound by magical contract into tracking down fugitives and rounding up conscripts.

Harry sighed and shook his head, then turned to fumble in his drawer for clothes. It was a Sunday, so he pulled on a baggy pair of Dudley's old jeans, which hung low on his hips even with the belt he'd bought in Paris. He dragged a faded purple Zonko's t-shirt over his head and dug underneath his bed for the dragonhide boots Hermione had given him for his birthday. He couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in the things; ever since he had seen Bill strutting around in boots just like these he had wanted a pair, and though he'd never say it out loud, he did think they were extremely…cool, as it were. For a 17 year old on the prowl for a girlfriend – never mind that she happened to be Ron's sister, he would cross that bridge when he came to it – they were especially cool. Turning back to the paper he sat down on his bed, wondering why nobody had come back from breakfast yet. He glanced down at the front page and began to read.

_Minister Scrimgeour announced late last night that an agreement had finally been reached on the subject of Hogwarts students with regard to conscription. Aurors are to enter the school early this morning to make good on a deal sealed between the board of Governors and the Ministry, wherein one in three – _Harry leapt to his feet. They were probably already here – he seized his wand and shoved it into his back pocket, then stumbled from the dormitory to vault down flights of stairs and tear into the common room – was Ron ok? – and shouldered his way through the portrait hole to a squeal from the fat lady. He pounded down the corridors, whipping through tapestries to take all the short cuts he knew, sprinting madly at every stretch of open corridor. He rounded a corner sharply and took the steps to the Entrance Hall two at a time – and stopped dead in the middle of the staircase, panting harshly.

The castle doors were open, and students had been lined up on the lawn, on their knees, in ordered lines patrolled by scarlet-robed Aurors. One in three seventh years, the paper had said. That meant three Gryffindors – all with families unless they took him. He was about to leap the last few steps to the ground when he saw Dumbledore. The old man was being hustled up the steps by a squad of Aurors – Kingsley Shacklebolt at the head of the group. Behind him the teachers filed into view, and each was ordered to kneel. Harry couldn't quite figure out why they complied so easily. Then he saw the Slytherins. Malfoy and Snape were at the end of the line closest to him, wands of Aurors at their throats, hands bound behind their backs, feet tied at the ankles where they knelt. Something about watching Snape kneeling and bound, and Dumbledore powerless in the face of harm coming to his students made Harry's heart ache and constrict with anger, and grief, and something he didn't ever remember feeling.

Then Scrimgeour emerged from the dungeon staircase and saw Harry. He didn't know quite what spurred him to action, but he supposed later that it was a combination of reckless bravery – or stupidity – and instincts burned into him by all the duels he'd been in, and the fact that he had to do something, anything, to stop what was happening to his school. He vaulted over the banister towards Scrimgeour, who drew wand blistering fast, but – "EXPELLIARMUS!" Harry was faster and the stick flew from Scrimgeour's grasp, and then he had shouldered the Auror behind the Minister back down the steep stairs, twisted nimbly under Scrimgeour's outstretched arm and kicked him in the back of the knee.

Silence. Scrimgeour was on his knees, Harry's wand tucked under his chin. Shacklebolt and the other Aurors had scattered and formed a semi-circle around him, and through their thin ranks he could see the students on the lawn staring up at the commotion. There was no noise from the Auror he had sent tumbling down the stairs. "Right," he said, "back up onto the lawn." When there was no movement, he jammed his wand against the Minister's throat. "NOW! You think I won't hurt him? Try me." The Aurors walked backwards slowly, with Dumbledore, whose piercing eyes were watching Harry calculatingly. He met them as he forced Scrimgeour to his feet and moved carefully forwards, listening for any hint that the Auror behind him was up and moving.

_You should have stayed in bed, Harry. _

The gentle brush of Dumbledore's mind against his soft and effortless, so different to all the times he had practiced Occlumency with Snape. _We were only trying to protect you. _A thousand retorts sprang to mind, but he tamped down on them. Then he knew what had to be done as he glanced away to look at the kneeling Slytherins. They easily made up the quota of conscripts that would be levied from the other houses. And with him – it had to work. Scrimgeour would seize the opportunity. He looked back up at Dumbledore, whose eyes went wide.

_I know what I'm doing, _he thought._ Trust me._ Dumbledore staggered, but Harry had looked away again, willing Snape to meet his eyes. The Potions Master did, and his eyes widened in the instant he saw what Harry planned. _Please, _though Harry, _please help me. Please go along with it. We can save all the other conscripts. Just help me out here._ Snape's black eyes bored into Harry's, and he nodded shortly, and then sneered faintly, sardonically, back at him.

_You are a reckless fool, Potter. But they were planning to take all of the Slytherins anyway, one way or another_

"Potter," said Scrimgeour loudly, "kindly unhand me before you get yourself into even more trouble."

"I don't think so, Minister. You see, I have something to say-"

"That you're not going to say, Potter," put in Shacklebolt. "The Minister is right. Whatever you think you're doing, this is all legal. We just want one in three of the seventh years from each house-"

"QUIET!" Harry bellowed, choking Scrimgeour with his wand again. "It'll only take a moment. I have a proposition to make to the Minister here." He bent his head to speak so that only Scrimgeour could hear. All the students had turned to watch, and Dumbledore was now on his knees in front of the Slytherins, staring at the Aurors holding wands to their throats. His ice-blue eyes blazed, and power seeped of the man in way that made Harry's hands shake, but the implication should he not remain still was clear.

"Minister Scrimgeour. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I'm Dumbledore's Man, through and through, and since he can't act I suppose I should do something instead. You want one in three conscripts from each house, and I know how very much you want me to be one of those. But I'm one of the youngest in my year, so I won't be one of the three eldest who are chosen, will I?" He glanced up at the Aurors. Shacklebolt made to move forwards and Harry felt Scrimgeour shake his head. "Now, the Slytherins make up exactly the quota of students you want from the other houses. Professor Snape would agree to your taking his Slytherins if he went too, I'm sure. And if you agree to take Snape and his Slytherins and _only _Snape and his Slytherins, you can have me too." Scrimgeour had tilted his head to better listen to Harry. "Make an unbreakable vow with me, right now, right here, that Hogwarts students will never be under the authority of the Ministry in any area ever again, and I'll swear my life to this country." Scrimgeour was silent. "Do we have a deal?" There was another lengthy pause, and Harry began to wonder if this was really as it good an idea as it had seemed a minute ago.

"Yes. Shacklebolt, release the teachers and let go of the Headmaster. The Slytherins stay where they are, and the students don't move yet." Harry stepped back and slipped his wand into his back pocket. "There has been a change of plans. Mr. Potter and I have reached an understanding, and we're going to need a Bonder for an Unbreakable Vow." He glanced back at Harry, eyes unreadable. "No, make that two Vows."

"Dumbledore," Harry blurted, suddenly feeling a lot less brave than he had an adrenaline fuelled minute ago. _You always say you're in Gryffindor. You always say you're Dumbledore's Man. So take it on the chin and prove it._ Dumbledore stood up and stepped forwards, eyes meeting Harry's once more. _I'm proud of you, Harry. _And all of a sudden it wasn't so hard to be brave. Harry stepped forwards and dropped to one knee, holding his right hand up. Scrimgeour knelt opposite him, and Dumbledore stood over them, wand poised above their clasped hands. "Nice and loud now, Minister," murmured Harry. Dumbledore's wand-tip brushed over his knuckles, and Harry felt the blood slide from his head. He'd woken up to a lazy Sunday morning not half an hour ago, and here was signing his life away for other students and betraying Slytherin. This was it. He felt cold and almost feverish at the same time, and his tongue was thick in his mouth. Harry spoke before Scrimgeour could.

"Do you, Rufus Scrimgeour, swear that Hogwarts students will never, in any circumstances, for the rest of the time Hogwarts exists, come under the authority of the government in any form?"

"I do." Scrimgeour's eye twitched.

"Will you ensure that the government will, to the best of its ability, ensure that Hogwarts students remain free of the control of the British government?"

"I will."

"And will you, should it prove necessary, give your life to defend the rights of Hogwarts' students, its staff and Headmaster from violation by the government of any of its agents, affiliates of associates?"

"Yes." Three tongues of flames danced and hissed about their hands, and now Scrimgeour spoke, a gleam in his eye.

"Do you, Harry Potter, promise your life in service to Great Britain?"

"Yes."

"Will you serve in any manner deemed necessary to fulfill this promise?"

"Yes."

"And will you, should it prove necessary, give your life to protect and serve your country?"

"Yes."

The tongues of flame were intense, and twined and seared and burned their way across skin as they tightened – then vanished, in a puff of smoke, leaving blistered burns across Harry and Scrimgeour's hands and wrists. Harry dropped Scrimgeour's hand and stepped back.

"Before we go, could I have a moment with a few people?"

Scrimgeour smiled.

"Of course." He turned to his Aurors. "Fetch Mr. Potter his friend Mr. Weasley." Harry was about to ask for Hermione too, but bit his tongue. He would take what he could get. He spun to face Dumbledore.

"Sir." His voice was quiet and steady, and he felt pride that it didn't shake. "I'm sorry about this." Dumbledore was about to speak, but Harry cut him off quietly. "You mean the world to me, sir. Hogwarts means the world to me. You've given me something I never thought I'd have, and for that I owe you a lot more than I'll ever be able to give back now. Take care of the others." There was a lot he wanted to say, and he didn't care that he sounded like an idiot, but it seemed important that he let Dumbledore know how much he meant to him. "Good luck. I'll never forget you." Then he stepped forward and impulsively hugged the old wizard. Suprisingly strong arms closed around him and he pressed his face into midnight blue robes, inhaling the scent of rain. Then he pulled back and turned to Ron, who now stood, hands unbound, on the edge of the steps.

"Ron, mate," he said, and this time his voice was a little shaky. Everyone was watching, but he didn't care. He stepped down and clasped Ron's shoulders. "I love you. Tell your mum and dad I love them too, and give my best to all the family. Look after Hermione and Ginny for met too, will you?" He hugged Ron tightly to him, and stood back again. He looked into Ron's eyes. "We've had a good run, eh, Weasel King?" Ron smiled wanly at him. "It's been fun." Scrimgeour cleared his throat impatiently. "I know I haven't always been the best company, but I care about you guys more than words will ever be enough to express. I'm doing this for you. I'm sorry I won't see the people you're going to become, but even if I never see you again I'll think of you every day." He released Ron's shoulders, leaving the gaping red-head swaying on the spot. Aurors took hold of his arms and began to bind his hands behind his back. "Live life for the both of us." The ropes jerked tight. "Remember me, ok?" His voice was steady, and he pulled his shoulders back. "Good luck, Ron. Godspeed." The Aurors shoved him forwards, and he twisted to look back at Ron.

"Remember me."


	2. All The King's Men

CHAPTER 2: All The King's Men

**CHAPTER 2: All The King's Men**

"GO! GO! GO!" Shells exploded, and the splintering crack of sniper fire echoed in the silence between salvoes. Black smoke and haze drifted across the urban wreckage of Diagon Alley, and Ron did as he was told, shielding his pregnant wife with the heavy red and gold robe of the Order of the Phoenix he wore. Hermione brandished her wand, but he pulled her away as the soldiers who shouted at him piled into the breach in the wall. Automatic gunfire roared deafeningly close, and black-garbed soldiers hunkered down against shattered bricks as their comrades bellowed spells across the street at the Death Eaters in Florean Fortescue's. Noise and smoke and shouts and screams – Ron staggered as the wall beside him exploded, sending him flying along with Hermione. He scrambled to his feet on the cobbles to protect her where she lay, dazed and cradling her swollen stomach. Three masked Death Eaters advanced on him, and his ears were ringing too much to tell if the laughter was their's or just in his head. He twirled his wand to hex the one on his right but a spell from his left slammed into his chest, sending him to his knees; he felt ribs crack. He scrambled for his wand – and then dragon-hide combat boots landed in his field of vision, buckles burnished black.

Green light shot wordlessly from the soldier's wand and a Death Eater dropped where he stood. The other two moved fast on the man's left, and a second burst of green light felled the one closest to him, but now more Death Eaters were on the scene and one seized the soldier's wand arm – he dropped the wand and twisted under the jet of a spell from the Death Eater still coming on his left. It hit his comrade and the soldier hurled him down. Ron saw the man's left hand, strong forearm streaked with dirt and sweat, find the grip of a fish-knife in his belt as he threw himself to the side, rolling on his shoulder to avoid another spell. The short, wicked knife snicked free and the soldier grabbed the Death Eater's wand arm, pulling him forwards and spinning under and around his arm, slashing the knife up and across his throat in a spray of blood. The 9mm leapt from his thigh holster to buck in his hand as he fired steady shots into the two more Death Eaters sprinting down the street. No more were heading away from the soldiers Ron had left at the breach in the wall.

Ron coughed and struggled to his feet, turning to help Hermione. The combat boots and black BDUs were back in his field of vision.

"Sir, you need to come with me right now." The English voice was deep and slightly familiar, and Ron lurched up with Hermione's arm slung over his shoulder – and stopped. The man before him was taller than he remembered, and his face was lean, as was the rest of his body below powerful shoulders. The black, military issue t-shirt was tight across grime-streaked, muscled arms, and the Kevlar strapped tight across the soldier's torso served only to heighten the impression of strength and speed. Sprayed but faded across the chest was the ghoulish white skull and wand emblem of the Elite Ministry Guard – the best of the best the army had to offer. The 9mm was holstered at his thigh and his wand was back in its chest sheath across his chest, along with the fish knife at his waist. There was a faded scar that wound around his right hand and wrist. One eye and cheek were bruised and blackened, and his head was shaved, but the lightening bolt scar on the left of the man's forehead was unmistakable.

"Harry?" gasped Ron.

"We don't have time for this, sir. Can you carry her?" Harry – for Ron was sure it was Harry now – motioned to Hermione, and Ron shook himself.

"Yes, yes, I-"

The wand came out of its sheath again. "Good. You look after her; I'll take care of things on the way to the Cauldron. Stay behind me and do exactly as I say." Harry stepped past them and in close to the wall, and Ron followed close behind him. They made their way furtively down the street, Hermione mumbling incoherently, Harry leading, now with both wand and 9mm drawn. Ron saw that there was a sawn-off shotgun tucked into straps on the Kevlar across his back. Two grenades sat in straps on the back of his belt. Abruptly Harry stepped away from the wall and fired to quick shots and a flash of soundless green light at two Death Eaters across the way. They dropped without a sound. He moved back in close to wall.

"Are you alright, sir?" It was surreal, Ron thought, but he answered anyway.

"We're fine." They were almost at the Leaky Cauldron now, and Ron wondered if the evacuation point had been overrun yet. Maybe – Harry half-turned and shoved Ron into a doorway.

"Stay down!" Then he was off and moving, cross-stepping as he moved steadily across the street, firing as he went. Death Eaters seemed to have sprung out of the wood work, and Ron knew it was an ambush; how cruel it would be to get this close to safety and then be captured. He wanted to leap up, to help, but to leave Hermione exposed…

Harry dropped behind an overturned table of wares and let fall the used clip from his handgun, sheathing his wand and loading another magazine with a snap. Spells hissed over his head and bullets sparked on the cobbles by the table he sheltered behind – then he reared up and fired two-handed, arms on the wood. Short, sharp shots carefully aimed and timed, each followed by the clatter of a body falling into the assorted wreckage of cauldrons and rubble strewn across the street from shops. He tore a grenade from the back of his belt and jerked out the pin with his teeth, hurling it over hand down the street. He ducked again as red light whistled past his ear, still firing indiscriminately as he tapped his ear, speaking into a slender mouthpiece that came half-way down his cheek from the radio in his ear. An explosion roared and shook the ground, and then Ron could hear him shouting over the racket. Radios hadn't been advanced enough to avoid magical interference before this war had started.

"This is Black Dog to Apache! I repeat BLACK DOG TO APACHE, REQUESTING IMMEDIATE BACKUP OUTSIDE THE EXTRACTION POINT!" He dropped the handgun and leapt up, firing wordless spells of assorted as he went and still speaking into the earpiece. "WE HAVE TWO FRIENDLIES FOR EVAC! I NEED SOME FUCKING HELP _NOW_!" Harry hurdled the table and moved smoothly forward, sending two Death Eaters flying with a vicious slash of his wand – then he was dueling two more, wand a blur, and now he was shouting incantation that were two guttural for Ron to make out. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" He arched his back and fell down, narrowly avoiding a purple jet from his second opponent's wand. He landed heavily on his back and his feet swept out, hooking the Death Eater standing over him and scything him to the ground, then Harry was on him and hands closed around the masked jaw - muscles bunched and then with a violent twist and a sickening crunch the man lay still. Harry vaulted to his feet, only to be thrown to the side when automatic fire thudded into his Kevlar. He dropped and rolled behind a hunk of concrete and brick, then came up smoothly, drawing the shotgun from his back in the same motion and firing once, twice, the shots heavy and muted. Ron heard a body fall to the ground in the doorway along from his.

Booted feet pounded the pavement and Harry twirled his wand elegantly – then golden light hissed and crackled from it and with a great whoosh a fireball irrupted from the rubble before him, his hands tense and arms corded as he sent it hurtling down the street. There an almighty roar, and then the world blitzed out – Ron hugged Hermione to his chest, eyes squeezed shut, and metal splinters and hellfire hurtled towards him when he opened them – but there was a shield, someone else was there, a great silver dome covering him and Hermione, another pair of combat boots sliding on the broken glass and dust of the street against the strain of holding the shield. Then it was over. The second soldier dropped into a crouch before him. Ron's breath caught in his throat for the second time that day. He wore the same equipment as Harry right down to the fish knife, and his blonde hair was shaved too, the white skull and wand emblazoned across the chest of his kevlar vest; his sculpted forearms were tense and his grip on his wand made Ron nervous. Draco Malfoy's pale eyes gave him a quick once over.

"We're almost there, sir. Let me help you." Ron could only gape as Malfoy heaved Hermione up into his arms – he was taller too – and carried her like a child. A smoke blackened shadow appeared above Ron and hauled him to his feet. Harry's un-bruised cheek was sliced open over where the bone should be, and blood seeped from a laceration at the line of his shaved hair. The knuckles of the hands gripping his arms were cut and dirty, and a cut high on his biceps smeared blood onto Ron's hand as he was spun towards the Leaky Cauldron

"Let's go, sir." Harry hustled Ron after Malfoy and Hermione, past soldiers gathering on either side of the brick entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. He stopped, pushing Ron behind him as he turned to face the alley, tapping the radio in his ear again. It was quieter now, Ron realized. After three hours of hiding in shops and playing cat and mouse and watching soldiers and Death Eaters blown to bits, was it over? "Black Dog to Winter Soldier, the evacuation point is secure. What's your status?" Indistinct voices crackled over the radio. "Copy that, Winter Soldier. Rendezvous at the extraction point. I have two squads ready to start cleanup, and the Colonel had already started combing things over with his men." More noise, and Harry nodded. "Copy that. Over and out." He turned to the soldiers kneeling and crouched around the entrance. "Threat's been neutralized. Bigby, take your squad and start cleanup." A stocky, heavily muscled man – no white skull on his Kevlar nodded and motioned to the men around him. They moved off down the street, jogging along, stopping to cover those who ran past them, then running past them in turn. They picked through the rubble, shots echoing occasionally from guns pointed at writhing figures. Spells cleared the smoke the soldiers were vanishing into, but before Ron could get a proper look at the carnage of the alley Harry had hauled him through the brick archway, leaving silent soldiers on one knee, weapons up, to guard it. Harry pushed the pub door open before Ron could get to it, and he stepped through into the – for once – well-lit interior. Maps were spread out on a line of tables in the centre of the cleared room, and a bath-tub of floo powder sat by the empty fire place. Hermione had been laid out on the bar, and a military medic was bent over her. Ron shouldered past Harry, his heart clenching – the medic straightened and smiled, looking up at him. "She'll be fine, sir, just fine. She's unconscious. No damage to the baby," he continued, twizzling his wand between his fingers. Ron's throat clenched and he breathed out in relief. He bent to kiss his wife's forehead softly, and the medic continued. "I'm shipping her to St. Mungo's straight away just to be sure, Mr…?"

"Weasley," blurted Ron, "Ron Weasley, I'm with the Order of the Phoenix, and this is my wife Hermione." The words came out breathless with relief, and the medic turned away from him to scribble on a notepad. "I'll…follow along shortly, I need to take care of some…things," he finished lamely.

"Of course, sir," the medic nodded again. Ron glanced once more at Hermione – he'd see her shortly, and she was fine, he told himself, and then turned to look over the room. Five men were bent over the maps on the long makeshift table, speaking quietly into radios, jotting things on the maps in bright ink. The room was empty apart from that – it seemed the evacuation had either finished or lulled here. The far side of the room, away from the bar and closest to the street entrance, was occupied by a sort of makeshift armory – guns lined neatly on racks and automatic rifles – and a kind of field check-up made up of a table and two medics. Harry was standing still as one of them stitched the worst slice, the one on his arm, and the other wiped at the cut on his cheek before applying butterfly plasters to it. Ron made his way quietly over to where Malfoy stood, dumping his empty clips into a bin by the gun-rack and selecting new ones from a neat stack. The blonde ignored him until he'd finished stowing things in the pockets of his BDUs and sliding his wand into the holster across his chest. Then he turned, cold grey eyes fixing on Ron's.

"Hi, Draco," said Ron quietly. "It's been a while." He held out his hand, and to his shock and surprise Malfoy took it, grip firm. He didn't smile, but his eyes seemed to lighten.

"It's been a very long while, Mr. Weasley." He didn't let go of Ron's hand for a moment. "Congratulations on your wife's pregnancy. I hear she's been doing very well for herself." Ron couldn't help but grin. "Hermione Granger, Wizarding Barrister. Who would've guessed, eh?" Draco did smile then, a faint ghost of a thing which nonetheless reached his eyes.

"Oh, I don't know." The voice was soft, deep and had a rough edge to it. "She was always good at talking." Harry stepped up behind Malfoy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Alright, Draco?" Ron glanced briefly between the two men, watching as their eyes met and messages passed that didn't seem to need words.

"Better than you, Cap." Ron started. Captain? "The Major'll be back soon. He's talking things over with Colonel Shacklebolt now." Harry smiled, and again it was faint and like paper, as Draco's had been. He squeezed Draco's shoulder lightly, then his hand fell to his side again as his gaze lit upon Ron.

"Ron Weasley." He stepped forwards and held up his right hand, the line of scaring twined faintly around it. Ron clasped it tightly. "It's been a very long time," he said quietly, echoing Draco's words. "It's great to see you." Then he yanked Ron forward into a hug that had him wheezing as he tried to breathe through it. "So, you remembered me then?" Harry said jokingly. His voice was different, thought Ron. Harder, harsher. He remembered Harry the boy, his best friend in the whole world, young and naïve and idealistic, as he had been on the steps that last day. Perhaps it was a good thing he had remembered that boy, because there was only a ghost of him here now.

"'Course I did, you prat. 'Course I did." Harry's smile was far more real now, less hard-edged and brittle. "I have a son, you know. Harry. Harold Ronald Weasley." Now the smile lit up his eyes. "Got a second one on the way."

Harry's voice was softer again.

"That's fantastic, Ron. Really fantastic." There was something in his green eyes that Ron couldn't quite identify. "I knew you'd use what I gave you." Draco was watching him now too, eyes intent, a smile dancing about his lips, and Ron felt vaguely uncomfortable. "I have a week's leave coming up in couple of days. Would you…that is, would it be alright if I came by to see you? I haven't really been in these parts for a while." Ron smiled and the tension left Harry's shoulders.

"Sure. Whenever you feel like it. We're still at the Burrow, by the way. The whole family's there." Harry's eyes fixed on something over Ron's shoulder, then he looked back at him.

"Right then. You should go, sir." Ron was left standing abruptly alone by the fireplace and the flood powder as the pub door opened again. A single man came in, and – this was getting repetitive. Harry and Draco walked over to Snape, whose hair was messy and matted with sweat and dirt, short, but unshaven like the other soldiers. Ron sighed and turned away to the floo. He could ask Harry all the questions he wanted at the weekend. If he was still really Harry at all, but then, who was he to judge? He hadn't seen the man in six years.


	3. Animals

The cloth was rough against his eyelids and cheeks and the stubble of his shaved head, and he could feel the blindfold's tight knot at the back of his head where it was tied

_The cloth was rough against his eyelids and cheeks__ and the stubble of his shaved head, and he could feel the blindfold's tight knot at the back of his head where it was tied. A bead of sweat rolled down his spine, and he resisted the urge to bring his arms across his exposed ribs, or to hunch over from his upright position._

_"You can take the blindfold off to fight back anytime you like, Potter." The drill sergeant's voice didn't sound like the drill sergeant from Full Metal Jacket, which Dudley had let Harry watch with him last summer when they'd started going to the boxing club together. "This test has not been used by the Aurors in 10 years; the Ministry deemed it excessively violent and inhumane," continued the sergeant, sneering now. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, and he strained to hear something beyond the circular pacing of the Auror around him. "The record holders for the past__ 100 years are as follows." School text book now. Professor Binns. "Severus Snape, 29 minutes 32 seconds, aged 21; Sirius Black," Harry's stomach dropped into his toes, "27 minutes 58 seconds, aged 20; Frank Longbottom, 26 minutes 0 seconds, aged 21; James Potter, 25 minutes 51 seconds, aged 19." Harry thought he might be sick, and he tried to calm his racing heart. "You lose consciousness, your time stops. You remove the blindfold, your time stops. You call STOP, your time stops. It can stop whenever you want it to. Remember that." Harry nodded, feeling ridiculously exposed in the black boxer briefs he had been given, waiting for a blow, a sound, anything that would alert him to an attack – _

_SMACK. He shouted out and twisted away from the stick that had struck him across the lower back and forearm – straight into a vicious blow to the side of his head which spun him round into a sweep at his legs, and the next he knew he was lying on the mats, blows raining down on his neck and head, and he was seeing stars in the dark. Weren't you supposed to be trained for this sort of thing? __He was losing it, fading, the stars were winking at him and he felt something warm and distant run down his face…Severus Snape. 29 minutes 32 seconds. 29 minutes 32 seconds. Snape. Severus Snape. Sirius Black. James Potter…_

_"NO!" he roared, and then he was surging upwards, lashing out with violently wind-milling arms, fists clenched. There was a crunch under his left fist and a cry, and he leapt towards it, arms raised now to protect his head and neck, blows cracking against the trembling muscles of his back and sides. Stinging, smarting blows landed on his thighs as he seized clothing, and then he was punching, feeling flesh under his hand grow wet. An almighty blow landed on his upper arm and he felt the skin split and the stick crack. He bellowed and whipped around, dropping the limp thing he had been holding to seize the broken half of bamboo that fell at his feet. He clenched it tightly in his fist and lashed out, the wood scything audibly through the air, but more blows still raining in on him, and he was going to have to drop it because surely they would be going for the knockout now, and if he didn't protect his head – there was a hiss of air from behind him and he threw his forearm up and back. The force of the blow it blocked slammed his arm into his head and he pitched forwards – and down, into a roll, hoping to escape the blows for even a moment. He came up with his arms raised on either side of his head, remembering punches raining down on painfully bruised forearms in the ring with Dudley. But they were still there, and he folded over a stick that drove into his side, arms still raised. He grit his teeth as more blows rained in on him, keeping low and on the balls of his feet, back__ing away because nothing was striking at him from behind. _

_Then pain shot up his leg with a blow to the hamstrings and his knee had folded under him, dropping him to the side. His hands dropped slightly and his head snapped back, his lips driven onto his own teeth. Warmth ran down his chest now, and he didn't know if it was blood or sweat or tears, because there were tears from the pain. A booted foot rocketed into his sternum and he collapsed sideways – agony, agony, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, they'd stopped his heart, he was dead, trying to suck in air that wouldn't come, curled into the fetal position, one arm wrapped around his chest and the other shielding his head. The white hot anger that had come with the first blows was turning to desperation, and he choked on the blood in his throat that must have come from his nose. Short of breath but breathing blessed, sweet air again, he reached out blindly and snagged a foot that was too slow to get out of his way and yanked hard, crying out inarticulately. He scrambled over the body and smashed it in the face with elbows and fists, then rolled under it and threw it off him, leaping up and away from the bamboo sticks, staggering. _

_Movement__ became an eternity of pain, of his desperate, bitten off cries clenched in his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, and warm blood running down his skin. He moved and staggered and lashed out where he could, and every now and then he would find himself on the ground, or feel vomit rising in his throat when the blows became too much._

_Then he staggered, and his back met the padded wall, fist and forearms raised, feet braced. The breath whooshed from his lungs with one, two, three single blows to his midriff, but he was too weak now to do anything about it. He clenched his teeth and lunged forwards, but strong hands seized him and hurled him back, winding him against the wall. He didn't want to stand up on his own again, and then blows were cracking and slapping against his shoulders and head, and he threw fists and arms out wildly to try and block. But he was slow, exhausted now, and his head whipped to the side with a blow. He was twisted to the other side by a second blow, and now he was drooling, gasping for breath, head drooping, batting uselessly at the slow, occasional blows he couldn't see. There was a hiss, a crack and white light flashed where only darkness had been before now. The world spun in his mind, and he remembered Ron's arms tight around him. The air had been cold on his head when they'd shaved it, and the freezing showers had left him shivering for hours. His balance went, and the slick plastic mats at his back slid along, moving away from him, and then something was soft at his cheek, and he was whirling and spinning. __He lay still. His head dropped to the side, and there were no more blows, just swinging, seesawing whiteness and motion – then nothing._

_There was muted breathing in his ears. Gradually he became aware of coarse hands running over his limbs, feeling along his fingers, pushing softly at tender bruising and sore joints._

_"Aah," he murmured, when the hands were replaced by a damp cloth on blood encrusted skin on his arms and chest. It rasped over splits in his skin, and he realised when he stirred that stitches pulled at them._

_"Be still." His eyes flew open at the voice, and he almost flinched at the sight of Snape leaning over him. "If you tear the stitches I will have little sympathy for you, boy. Not that I have any at present." But he didn't sneer, and Harry lay still. "You are lucky. Nothing is broken." Long fingers pressed into his ribs, running over his chest and round his sides, then closing over his hip-bones and squeezing. "Yes, merely bruising," finished Snape. Harry stared at him, marveling at how surreal life was becoming. A though struck him as Snape – astonishingly softly – began to wipe him down with the lukewarm cloth. He shivered._

_"How-" his voice caught in his raw throat, and he swallowed and tried again, less raspy this time. "What was my time?" Snape's hands stilled. He straightened and looked down at Harry. The silence stretched, and Harry swallowed again, but not because of a dry throat. Snape's voice was soft when he answered._

_"29 minutes dead, Potter." Harry let out a breath and had trouble drawing one in again when Snape continued. "It was an immensely impressive feat to behold."_

Harry nudged his empty chamber pot under his bed with a foot, then turned and strode naked across the room of half-dressed soldiers, his blanket in his hand. He folded it neatly and set it in his open locker, before heading towards the icy cold of the showers. He stood under the stream for less than a minute, then dried himself with one of the straggly towels hanging on pegs outside the cold, grey-tiled area. His fingers ghosted lightly over the black ink of his name and date of birth tattooed high on his left side, just below the armpit. He didn't own any civilian clothes, so he pulled on a pair of black BDUs, laced his military-issue boots, and slid his fish-knife and wand into the back of his belt – the only pieces of gear no man was required to keep in the lock-up. A desert warfare beige t-shirt sat neatly folded in the corner of his locker, and he considered that it might be a change to the constant black he was expected to wear. The pouch of galleons he kept in his locker at all times went into his hip pocket, and his black squad jacket, Union Jack sewn onto the shoulder above a faded white skull and wand emblem, Potter in block capitals on a patch on the left breast, slid over his shoulders. He hadn't spoken to anyone since he woken up, and that didn't end when he fell into step with Draco as they headed out across the exercise yard towards the gates. The sentries nodded and smiled at them, and stamped their leave papers before handing them back, and then they were standing in a misty country lane at six in the morning in rural Ireland.

"Diagon Alley?" asked Draco.

"I think so. We can get breakfast." There was a loud crack, and then the little farm road was silent and empty once more.

_His breathing was harsh in his ears and he shook, felt sick. The strength in his shoulders and arms seemed useless now, where he lay on his back, stripped, wet cloth tied over his eyes and nose. He was soaked and shivering from the frigid water that had choked and drowned him moments ago when it was poured into his jaw, chin pushed into his throat by brutal hands to keep his gasping mouth open. He dared not relax for fear that the whip or the riding crop would return to his exposed midriff, lying on his hands bound awkwardly behind his back as he was. He was praying, hoping that the crop would not slip lower to his bare genitals. Pain was one thing but that was on entirely another level. In that moment he wished for the torment of the exercise yards again, and the brutal spell sessions with the Aurors. He had no wand now, and that made him feel more naked than he ever had in the first hand-to-hand combat classes. And – _

_CRACK! The pain of the riding crop lanced through his bruised stomach and he groaned through clenched teeth. There were no questions in this interrogation, just requests. Just simple requests for the soldier._

_"Give in." The voice was always calm, always in control. Never angry. That would have been easier, he thought. "Just give in. We can stop this right now, boy." And wasn't that the killer. BOY. His uncle Vernon had been ok, really. Ok until he got into the whiskey, and then it had been kick the boy. Or hit the boy. Or…well. He supposed he was lucky his uncle hadn't been a proper pervert, just a bit unstable. Thank god for small mercies really. _

_Time faded and passed, and he felt weak, dizzy without sight, and he though he remembered being sick on himself but couldn't be sure, because the water kept washing it away, and the dull pain of bone-bruises put a haze on his senses. Then hands were seizing his shoulders, manhandling him upright, and he had to be awake, be AWAKE, because wasn't this supposed to be about escaping captivity as well as surviving it? The white room they had kept him in before had always been light, and he knew the food had come at irregular times because he had felt like a drunk, with no system, no routine. No recourse to the outside world, which was hinted at by the footsteps which went constantly, randomly, always back, and then perhaps forth and back and back, past the door. He didn't know how long he'd been alone for, had forced himself to eat though, had forced himself to exercise, because what if this was just to weaken him, break him down into easier meat? He was in the corridor now, not the water-room that he had never seen. He knew it was a corridor because he tripped sometimes, fell deliberately to see if he could bounce himself into a wall, just to know where he was. And the floor felt the same under his bare feet. Screams echoed randomly from left or right, and sometimes from somewhere else he though might be in his own ringing ears from his own torture. The air tasted different now, and he wondered briefly how much more he could take of this endless, endless dark and light and no magic and only pain, humiliation, naked vulnerability. He hadn't seen anyone in…well, he didn't know how long. He felt drunk, felt drugged, imagined that a dead man or a ghost might feel so placeless. _

_Then he was shoved, and landed hard on hands and knees on bare concrete, but dry and cold this time. A door slammed and he tore the blindfold from his face – light. He was dazzled for a moment, but then he saw the high barred window was letting in grey daylight. The cell had a drain in the centre and that was all. The concrete around it was stained darkly, and the place stank of rotten meat. Rotten meat and piss and shit, and he shivered. The whole world had gone mad, and he was going to die here. He didn't really know what the real world was like anymore when he though about it. He'd been six months in the exercise yards and then the war pens, and he'd seen Malfoy once. They'd been in fighting rings next to each other that one time, and before the hooded sergeants could drag him away, he'd leant over the ropes where they both stood and seized his hand, looked him in the eye. He hadn't seen him since._

_He supposed this was a kind of brain-washing really. Break them down through sheer brutal violence. The most violent are the best, and that required a sort of separation from everything. He didn't know if anyone had died, but he supposed that many of the bleeding or exhausted wrecks who had collapsed in the dust hadn't gotten back up. He was going to die here. Hadn't seen anyone he knew. They weren't allowed to talk to anyone. No names, no labels of any kind. If he was put in a room with people he didn't know if he'd be able to look at them; the idea of human contact was terrifying. How did you talk to people, really? How did you have a conversation that you were interested in? To get through a day full of people where you had to interact, had to act, had to be in relation to things, was unthinkable. Impossible. Maybe this was the real world and the talking and acting was just that – and act. _

_Memories from another life. He'd been a great friend, a good friend, once. Ron Weasley. Hermione. Ginny. He remembered the sun and the faint taste of real food. He'd come to die for all them and all that. He was going to die, he was sure of it now. The cell stank and he could see it was a butcher's room; the walls had dark sprays on them and if he sniffed at them they smelt of death.__ It must have been a long time, because if he brushed his hands over his head and face he could feel the thick fuzz of his hair starting to grow out, and stubble on his chin which he'd never managed to grow before without at least a week of not shaving. He sat down facing the door, the blindfold, a long piece of cloth with tails and folded over three times when it had been over his face, discarded in a corner. The light from the window above him grew brighter, and he supposed he was seeing dawn and early morning. He closed his eyes._

_The steel door bounced off the wall with a resounding bang when it was hurled open. He scrambled to his feet. Two men were standing in the cell entrance. All in black, gloved hands, tack vests and black helmets, dark visors covering the upper halves of their faces. One of them had a wand. Slowly, ever so slowly, he pushed off the wall behind him, then stepped forwards to the centre of the cell. Over the drain. The second one was unarmed that he could see, and suddenly he realised that he didn't want to die. He wanted to hate, to fight and break and destroy these people as they had tried to do to him. An animal. He was an animal. There was nothing now. The wand-holder moved forwards to stand before him, and he knew this was it. The other man stood close behind him. The door was open. _

_"Kneel." And in that moment he moved. The violence was sudden and breathtaking. His hand shot up and into the throat of the wand-holder, clenching and twisting, and his other hand seized the wand wrist and twisted brutally – the wood came free as his knee rocketed into the crotch of the other man, too close behind his comrade – and then he felt cartilage give between his fingers. There was a gurgled choke from the man who's throat he released, and then he had seized the helmet, wrenched and twisted up and sideways – and the crunch told him the second man was gone before he dropped him like a stone. _

_He turned frantically fast and flicked the wand at the blindfold cloth in the corner. It whipped into the air and smarted briefly as it wrapped snugly around his crotch, buttocks and thighs – after all, he didn't want anything getting caught in the great escape. He stepped cautiously into the corridor, and he saw the sloping floor where it went steeply upwards not a metre to his right. There was nothing in the dull, yellow-lit corridor to his left. He turned and sprinted. The undersides of his toes smarted as he tore up the concrete ramp, and he powered on, breath tearing at his throat, acid in his mouth. His eyes felt swollen and bruised like the rest of him, and he knew his puffy lips were split. The faint daylight he had thought he'd dreamed at the bottom of the ramp was a reality now, and he slowed as he saw it up above. There was no door that he could see, and he ground to a halt. He lowered himself to his hands and knees and squinted up and what had to be sunlight, because nothing else looked quite that bright. The wand was clutched tightly in his hand. What the hell. He bolted._

_The grass was green and blissfully soft under his feet. The sun was warm on skin that looked pale to his watering eyes, and the air tasted fresh in his stale mouth. The barracks and the exercise yards were lined with watching men across the green from him, and a man was striding across the grass towards him. The man was tall, and his black hair stuck out at awkward angles, cut short but not shaved as it was; it looked vaguely greasy as he drew closer. The BDUs and black vest looked familiar too, and he had a rolled bundle under his arm._

"_Potter?" The voice was familiar too. He had hated that voice once. Hated it with the same passion he had hated the two men he had killed down in the cell, but now he was tired, drained, and contentedly distant. "Potter, look at me." The voice was gentle, and for some reason he felt that was unusual. But then this was Snape, and he was Potter, the boy who Snape had always hated. He dragged his gaze away from Snape's shoulder to meet his eyes. He reached out for the clothes Snape held out for him. The black vest and the BDUs felt rough against overly sensitive skin, and he almost fell over when pain from his chest and stomach flared when he laced the boots. Snape's hand was strong on his shoulder, and he straightened without really caring that the men lining the edge of the exercise yards and standing before the barracks were all staring at him. He had only ever seen the barracks from the yard or the war pens where he and the other new recruits had been kept on the other side of them. _

_"You have passed, Potter. With flying colours, as witnessed by all the officers and the recruits on a video-feed. They found you intriguing, and so they though perhaps it should be shown to all." There should have been anger at that, but there wasn't. He didn't speak, just nodded. Snape looked strangely concerned, and he wondered why nothing was said about the men he'd killed. "Follow me."_


End file.
